


A World Lit Only By Fire

by expected_aberrance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Dark Fairytale, F/M, Magic, shape-shifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Sansa loved her family dearly, but sometimes felt distant from them, particularly her rowdy siblings. When their play grew too rough for her she would wander off by herself, which suited her fine, as she was never truly alone. For she had an imaginary friend, as most children do, but Sansa’s was different; it was her shadow, and had never left her side, for as long as she could remember.





	1. Lupus Est Homo Homini

**Author's Note:**

> Dark Fairy Tale AU. 
> 
> Warning for violence, character death.  
>   
>   
> 

Once there was a girl with red hair who lived in a castle in the Far North, and her name was Sansa. The nights were long and cold in winter, but she was happy there with her father, mother, little sister, and three-and-a-half brothers. Her father was tall and solid as an oak; he kept the North for the king, and was beloved of his people. Her mother was kind and strong, though Sansa sometimes wondered how she could be so cold to her half-brother Jon when she showered her own children with such love. Sansa loved her family dearly, but sometimes felt distant from them, particularly her rowdy siblings. When their play grew too rough for her (never for her little sister Arya, though, she was often the worst offender) she would wander off by herself, which suited her fine, as she was never truly alone. For she had an imaginary friend, as most children do—even Robb, who as the eldest, felt it was his duty to pretend he had sprung a fully formed facsimile of their father in miniature, and always denied having indulged in such childish pursuits. But Sansa’s was different; it was her shadow, and had never left her side, for as long as she could remember.

Old Nan liked to tell them stories of the creatures that hid in the dark and snatched careless boys and girls away, never to be seen again, and afterwards Robb and Jon and her father’s ward Theon would goad each other to venture into the crypts on a dare, but Sansa walked there freely. It was when she was alone in the dark that she felt him the strongest. She couldn’t say how a shadow could be a he, though she was certain he was nonetheless. She knew others, even her family, found her nocturnal wanderings strange, but how could she fear the night when the blackest part of it kept her safe in its embrace?

The hot springs running underneath the castle ensured it was warmer than the icy stone would otherwise have made it, but on the bitterest nights her siblings would cave in to the cold and huddle together for warmth, the younger ones sometimes begging the indulgence of sleeping in their parents’ bed. Sansa never joined them, and they teased her with the title of Snow Princess, which she didn’t particularly like, but she couldn’t tell them that her shadow kept her warm at night.

**************

They often played with the village children outside the castle walls, the forest edge providing a fertile environment for the imagination. One day, when she tired of their game, finding not as much enjoyment as they did in hitting one another with sticks, she wandered into the forest itself. Heeding her parents’ warnings she kept close to the path until she came across a small stream. Reasoning that she could hardly lose track of a stream, she began following it. She was careful to keep her skirts and shoes dry as she stepped over the rock and gravel lining its banks. After a while, the sounds of the mock battle she’d abandoned faded behind her, and the trees grew closer overhead, casting her way in deep green shade. Suddenly, the stream’s bend opened up to a small clearing. She was struck by the stillness of it, only broken by the water’s soft murmur and her own quiet breath. She sat by the mossy edge to enjoy the peace, rarely found in the bustle of her daily life. She gradually noticed a feeling of being watched, which was nothing new in of itself, but there seemed to be a firmer presence behind it somehow. She peered carefully into the forest edge of the opposite bank and saw a shadow darker than the space around it. It moved toward her slowly until it formed into a face, eyes set deep behind a dark muzzle, ears sitting as triangles atop a massive head. It was a wolf, though much larger than the ones her father and his men killed when they strayed too close to the village, and black as night save for patches of gray around its jaws and ears. Its eyes were a gray-green, sharp amidst the dark fur, and beheld her with a rapt attention that was as familiar to her as the shape of her own hands. It was her shadow, somehow, and she felt no fear as it stepped forward into the light.

When she was younger, she had asked her father for a wolf as a present for her name day. She was bitterly disappointed when he told her it was impossible, that wolves could not be tamed or kept safely. That he should come to her in this way might be coincidence, but perhaps not. The wolf padded forward slowly, paws barely disturbing the rushing water as he crossed the stream. She didn’t move until he halted right before her, towering over her seated form even as he stood lower on the embankment. His head was bent so their eyes were level, and his gaze was unblinking as he held hers. Cautiously, she raised a hand toward him, stopping just shy of his nose. She felt him exhale before he pushed his muzzle forward to meet her hand. His nose was cold in her palm, but not unpleasant. She ran her hand along his jaw and he opened it. His teeth were sharp as she slid her fingers over them, but he did not bite. She brought her other hand to thread through the fur between his eyes, up and back to hook behind an ear. She marveled at the softness of it as she traced it. He flicked it slightly in response, but did not retreat.

“Hello.” It hardly seemed worthy of the occasion, but Sansa could think of nothing more profound to say. His eyes seemed to smile at her in reply. He pushed his head forward until his snout pressed into her abdomen, inhaling deeply. It made her belly twist strangely, but she decided she liked it.

************

He came to her in many forms—a fox, a crow, a cat, a hawk, even a rabbit once, but he was a wolf most often. She knew he wasn’t really any of them, but had not yet gathered the courage to ask what lay beneath his many skins. She told him everything, all the secrets she could tell no one else. He was silent, but his face was more expressive than most people she knew, and she quickly grew able to discern its smallest movements.

She still wished to hear his thoughts though, and one day wondered aloud, “Can you talk?”

He tilted his head curiously at her, and seemed to smile. “Yes.” His voice wasn’t as deep as her father’s, but had a rough edge she found strangely soothing.

She frowned at him, a little exasperated. “Then why don’t you?”

“You’ve never asked before.” She glared and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. He shoved her back gently, which she wasn’t prepared for, and sent her sprawling into the dirt. He not only talked, he evidently could chuckle as well, but it was such a lovely sound that she couldn’t stay angry with him. He dipped his head gallantly to offer her aid to stand, and after she twined her arms around his neck he pulled her to her feet easily.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes.” He drew his jaws apart in an almost mocking grin, but she didn’t ask what it was.

************

They were high on a mountain she knew to be far from Winterfell, but he assured her he would bring her back well before nightfall. She had ridden on his back for many miles; with such speed that her hair was blown into a wild tangle her mother would despair to see. The wind was cold, and sent drifts of snow over them from the crags above. Sansa hardly felt it, tucked safely into his side as she gazed over the landscape. He watched her unblinking, head resting on massive paws.

“Tell me a story.”

“What kind?” He seemed amused at the request, as he always did when she asked.

“A true one.”

“Very well.” He was quiet for a moment, considering. Sansa waited patiently until he continued.

“Once there was a boy who loved a beautiful girl. He wasn’t as big or strong as other boys, he had no castle, no land, no servants, but he was quick and clever, and he and the beautiful girl were the best of friends. They were inseparable, and the little boy was happy.

“He thought she loved him in return, so when the girl’s parents arranged a marriage to another boy, he challenged him to fight for her honor. The older boy was bigger, stronger, but the little boy knew his heart was true, and was sure he would prevail. When they fought, however, the smaller boy could not match him, though he tried with all his might. The older boy easily overpowered him, slicing the little boy open like the belly of a fish, laughing as he did so, and left him bleeding into the dirt. The little boy could only gasp the beautiful girl’s name as she stared down at him with pity, but she gave him no words in return. She too left him, drowning in his own blood, and each step away she took tore his heart anew.”

He fell silent, and looked away from her for the first time. Sansa didn’t want to upset him, but had to know. “What happened to the boy?”

“He died.”

“And the girl? Did she marry the other boy?”

He turned back to her, his expression unreadable for once. “No, he was called away to war before they could be wed, cut down in a distant land. She married his younger brother, and by all accounts, was quite happy.”

“That’s a very sad story.”

“Most true ones are.”

She hugged the wolf closer to herself, fingers carding through thick black fur, burying her face in his neck, and breathing in the dark forest scent of it.

“What was his name, the little boy?”

“Petyr.”

****************

Sansa fidgeted in her seat against the wall, going through the motions of her needlework absently. Her mother sat opposite, absorbed in her own developing garment. Sansa normally liked the opportunity to spend time with her mother alone, but a question had been turning over and over again in her head; she worried at it like a loose tooth until she could hold it in no more.

“Mum, what was Uncle Brandon like?”

“Why do you ask?” Her mother looked at her, curious.

“I was walking through the crypts, and I came upon his likeness. He looked kind.” He had not, but she didn’t think it wise to say so.

Her mother smiled gently. “He was many things, brave, handsome, excellent with a sword, but sometimes a bit hot-headed.”

“Did he ever kill anyone?”

“What a strange question, Sansa.” Her mother’s gaze sharpened, but she answered nonetheless. “He fought in a war, so I imagine he must have in battle.”

Sansa gripped the dark stone wall behind her, and felt a caress back. “Did he ever kill anyone in a duel?”

“How-” Her mother started, giving her a piercing look. Sansa didn’t falter under it. “It’s time for bed.” Her mother’s tone was forceful, as if she expected Sansa to protest, but her refusal to answer gave her all the information she had needed. She left her mother in the solar with a hollow feeling in her chest.

****************

She always fell asleep easily with him near, his presence wrapping around her like a blanket. Sometimes, late at night, she felt his warmth deeper, lower, a sinful fire between her legs. She touched herself in places that would shame Septa Mordane to discover, and when he said her name, it flared into an inferno of pleasure that consumed her.

****************

One day at the height of summer they were visited by the king. It had been many years since King Robert had seen his northern lands, and a great celebration was planned to receive him. He brought his family with him—an elegant, if haughty, golden-haired wife and their three flaxen-headed children. Her brothers, both just as blonde, had come as well. Sansa didn’t much like any of them, except perhaps the queen’s younger brother, whose twisted features hid an intelligent kindness. With their arrival came a flurry of activity, accompanied by many feasts and dances. Sansa cared little for it; she could never seem to find a moment alone, and the only opportunity she had to speak with the wolf came at night. Even that was curtailed when Rickon had asked her at breakfast one morning why she was talking to herself. What she liked least was the amount of time she was forced to spend in the crown prince’s presence. She supposed it made sense, as they were both of a similar age and eligibility, but she disliked him immensely, despite how her friend Jeyne gushed over him. When they danced, his hands on hers felt clammy and uncomfortable, and she didn’t trust his eyes. As the weeks drew on, she was also troubled by the tension she saw between her parents; there were dark circles under her father’s eyes, and her mother’s tight smile didn’t match the festive surroundings. She heard them arguing several nights in a row, though she couldn’t make out about what, aside from it had to do with the king. He wanted something from her father, and was threatening to eat, drink, and whore his way to her family’s ruin until he got it. She felt also the tension between the visiting and native soldiers, heard the rumors of unrest whispered through the halls.

She found out what it was one morning when her parents called her into her father’s office.

“He wants to join our houses, and has extended an offer on behalf of Prince Joffrey for your hand.” Her father studied her closely, as if expecting she would leap for joy at the news. When she didn’t, her mother added, “We won’t accept it unless you wish us to.”

She couldn’t tell them the truth, that there was something rotten, unclean about the young prince with the golden hair, so she tried a different objection. “I don’t love him.”

Her parents smiled wearily at one another before turning back to her.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t love your father when we first wed. Love comes with time and hard work. It’s a good match, and someday you will be queen.” Her mother’s eyes were sympathetic, encouraging even, and her father placed a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

She thought of her family, their people, and the coming winter. The drunken king with his cold wife, and the lions that circled their home in siege. Her heart was breaking, but she saw no other way. Her parents truly thought they were giving her a choice, so she couldn’t bring herself to hate them for it. She nodded, and they embraced her in relief.

She felt nothing as the announcement was made at the midday meal. She suppressed a shiver when Joffrey grabbed her hand, and the cheers and applause sent cold, sharp tingles down her spine. She pled illness midway through the soup course, escaping through the servants’ passages into the godswood. The wolf was there waiting, as she knew he’d be. His eyes, though, were nothing like she was used to—they were cold and shuttered, and he made no move toward her, backing away slightly when she stepped forward.

“I have to. It’s my duty.” Tears tracked down her face; she didn’t know when she’d started to cry. He said nothing, but the unspoken accusation burned like a brand over her skin.

“Please…” She reached for him, desperate, but the wolf turned away, disappearing into the undergrowth. And there, under the bright eye of the midsummer sun, for the first time in her life Sansa felt cold and utterly alone.

***************

The days that followed were full of wedding plans that Sansa took no part in. She barely slept, shrinking into herself like the pit that had settled in her stomach and refused to leave would eventually pull her in from the inside out until there was nothing left. Her mother remarked that she looked ill, so she made some effort at normalcy, going through the motions of living only to make them leave her alone. She had joined the ladies in their labor only to be interrupted by the bane of her existence himself.

“Will you walk with me, my lady?” His smile was practiced, regal, disgusting.

She wanted more than anything to decline, but her mother and Septa Mordane were looking at her expectantly. She sighed inwardly and pasted a wan smile on her face. She reluctantly accepted his arm for escort. Joffrey guided her out of the castle, trailed by a dozen of his men. She noted the burn-faced man was not among them; she recognized none the guards accompanying them, and thought it odd. They took a path winding around the castle wall that Sansa had not often used. Joffrey nattered on, having much to say, chiefly about himself, but little that Sansa had any interest in hearing. She made an effort to nod and remark where appropriate to feign attention. Eventually, they came to a clearing with the remains of some long-forgotten stone structure strewn about it. It was unfamiliar to Sansa, but she hid her apprehension behind a polite smile.

“Shall we go back, my lord?” Sansa asked mildly.

“We’ve just arrived, my lady. Besides, when else would we have this chance to be alone?” Joffrey teased. Sansa looked at the guards eyeing them impassively, and Joffrey laughed. “Pay them no mind, dearest. It’ll be like they aren’t even there.”

He was getting closer to her, too close, and she began to retreat. She only took a few steps before she realized he was backing her into a tree.

“Oh, you’re nervous, my beautiful bride. There’s no need to be. I’ll be gentle.” Joffrey gave her what he must’ve considered a reassuring smile. He placed a hand on the tree behind her, his other reaching for her hair, but she shied away.

“This is most improper, my lord.” Sansa replied, more forceful than before.

“We are to be wed soon enough. Besides, who’s going to find out?” He leant in to kiss her, and Sansa boldly pushed him away with a hand to his shoulder, the other moving against the arm blocking her exit.

“Stop.”

“What did you say?” Joffrey’s expression darkened.

Sansa did not back down. “I said, ‘stop.’ I wish to go back now, my prince.” She let part of her anger show to meet his.

“Is that any way to treat your intended, my lady?” His eyes revealed only cruelty now, his voice grating over her ears.

“It is the only way when one’s betrothed is behaving like a brute.” She looked around to the men surrounding them, but they did nothing but stare back at her.

“You should not provoke me so, my darling. As your lord husband, I’ll kiss you any time I wish, and more besides.” He grabbed her shoulder to pull her to him. It ignited a fury within her, and she reacted without thinking, throwing a hand out to slap him across the face.

“May the Stranger take me before I marry you!” She spat at him, and he grabbed at her, the material of her dress ripping. She hauled back her free arm and let fly a punch that would have made Arya proud, and it caught him over the eye. He staggered back, and the men around him stirred to action for the first time. The two closest descended on her, trying to pin her to the tree, but she bit and kicked and clawed at them.

Suddenly, the man on her left was wrenched away from her, and she and her other captor lurched in the opposite direction. The soldier had disappeared under a flurry of fur and teeth, and emitted a bloodcurdling scream that was cut short after only a heartbeat. The wolf turned toward the pair, and Sansa felt the soldier clutching her attempt to pull her in front of him as a shield. Even as he did so, the beast had already twisted around the tree behind them, moving too fast to see, and tore through the man’s armor like it was paper. Sansa stumbled forward, catching herself on her hands. The other men began shouting, but she couldn’t hear them. All she saw was the wolf’s deep eyes boring into her, and read the pain and apology writ clearly in them. She had no time to say anything before his attention was taken by the prince attempting to flee, his men moving in formation to protect him. He barreled through them heedlessly, crushing bodies and limbs under his claws until he reached the terrified boy. His jaws closed over Joffrey’s spine with a sickening crunch, and when he dropped the screaming boy his body was twisted at an unnatural angle. His prey incapacitated, the wolf turned his attention to the remaining men who had been fruitlessly hacking at him with sword and spear. He tore through them quickly, ripping flesh from bone with efficient fury. As the moans and prayers around her died down, Sansa slid a dagger out from the belt of the body next to her, and stood on shaky legs.

Joffrey lay gasping in the dirt, his eyes wide and frightened as Sansa stood over him. The lacerations over his neck were shallow but bled profusely, she noticed. She brought the dagger she still held toward him, chose the deepest cut over the center of his neck, and plunged it through. She watched him take his last gurgling breath with satisfaction, blood spurting from his mouth, and smiled as the light in his cruel eyes died. She wiped the blade clean on his clothing before rising.

There before her stood a man, not tall, barely her height, slender, dressed in all black, with short dark hair and beard tinged with gray. His eyes were not green, instead of fathomless night broken only by spots of silver light reflected, and she had never seen the face surrounding them, but she knew him.

“Petyr.”

She moved toward him carefully, half-fearing he would leave her again, but he remained utterly still. When she brought her hand to his face the darkness slipped from his eyes, revealing the gray-green she loved so well. He turned into her touch, nuzzling her palm.

“I thought you’d left me.”

“Never, my love.” He brought his hands to either side of her face, pulling her into him. She closed the distance between their lips herself, and in his kiss she felt the part of her that had been torn out restored, her heart beating once again. She could easily have lost herself in him forever if the sounds of approaching horses hadn’t separated them. He placed a final kiss on her forehead before smiling and turning away, melting into the shadow of the trees around them.

She was bloodied and crying when they found her, and stammered out a broken story they would believe. She felt Petyr’s pride at her skillful deception wrap around her like a cloak. Her parents clutched her to themselves as if they would never let her go; they only relented when the maester came to dress her wounds. In all the madness that followed, her eye was drawn to another figure that stood out amongst the fury in its stillness. The queen stared at her with an accusing, burning hate, like she somehow knew the truth. Sansa held her gaze until the movement of a passing servant interrupted them. When she looked again, Cersei had turned away. The royal party departed soon after under a veil of mourning, making haste to the capitol to bury the king’s heir on the consecrated ground of the royal crypts. Sansa wore the traditional black expected of her, but if anyone noticed that she bore it with more ease than was proper, no one said.

**************

She was granted a few seasons reprieve in the wake of her fiancé’s tragic end, but knew it couldn’t last forever. Sansa knew something was brewing from the unusual flurry of ravens coming and going in the past few weeks, and the way her parents had been eyeing her more closely than usual. When they had called her once again to her father’s solar, she was ready. They had pleaded with her to consider, but she had soundly denied them, storming off when they persisted. She fled to the tower no one used to get away from them. Petyr was already in the room she chose, leaning casually against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“They’re trying to arrange a match with Harrold Hardyng of the Vale.” She frowned in disgust and frustration, slipping into his waiting arms.

His eyes were dark as he smiled. “Really? I wonder if he is fond of hunting.”

She snorted, amused despite herself. “There are only so many times wild animal attacks can befall my suitors before people will believe me cursed.”

“Aren’t you?” His voice was teasing, but beneath it she knew he was asking something more.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” She placed her palm flat on his chest, feeling the heart beneath beat strong and steady with her own.

“What do you propose we do with all these poor men you’ll soon be collecting? You’ll have to settle on one eventually before your dear father pulls his beard out in despair.”

“I would choose you.”

He laughed. “I would like nothing more, but I cannot see that negotiation going well.”

“You can look like whomever you want, can you not? You could court me as someone else, a stranger they’ve never met.”

“What pretty face do you prefer to mine, that I may carve it from its skull for your pleasure?” His teeth gleamed as he bared them playfully.

“Don’t be silly. If we give you the right background, a minor lord from across the sea perhaps, I think I could convince them—”

“It’s too late for that, my love.” He was looking over her shoulder toward the door. Sansa turned in his arms to see her mother standing by the open doorway, seemingly frozen.

“Sansa, get away from him.” Her mother’s face was bloodless, and her voice cracked. She reached for Sansa with a hand that never wavered but was shaking now. Sansa was surprised that her mother seemed to recognize the boy grown, but little else would explain the sheer terror in the woman she couldn’t remember fearing anything.

“Hello, Cat.” His smile was cold and did not reach his eyes.

“It’s all right, Mother.” Sansa tried to step forward to placate her, but Petyr held her firmly.

“Ned!” Her mother’s voice was only a harsh whisper but her father must have been close, for he replied almost immediately.

“Did you find her? Hiding up here again?” Her father’s footsteps lumbered closer, and Catelyn Stark stepped slowly into the room, hugging the wall. Petyr tracked her motion with the placidity of a snake, unblinking. Sometimes, she had wondered whether he wished her to be the beautiful girl he had loved and lost. She never voiced these fears, they didn’t speak of it, but his embrace was tighter on those nights. His eyes now, though, rolled unrelenting black, held nothing for her mother but malice, and as his gaze shifted back to Sansa, he whispered to her, “you, only you.”

The floor creaked as her father stepped into the room. He was still only for a moment, taking in the sight before him, then he charged toward them, fully prepared to fight the monster with his daughter in its clutches bare-handed.

Petyr pushed her behind himself more quickly than she could blink, and stood in the path of her father’s bull rush with anticipation. When they were about to collide, Petyr merely reached out a hand, grasping the much taller and heavier man by the neck, and lifted him bodily off the ground with ease. She saw from the corner of her eye her mother grabbing a poker from the fireplace. She too ran forward, striking him on the side of the head with a blow that surely would have split his scalp if he were anything close to human, but Petyr shrugged it off as if it were a fly. She swung several more times, hitting her mark to no effect, before he seemed to tire of the game, catching the iron on the next swing and using it to fling her carelessly back into the pile of broken furniture in the corner.

Sansa shook herself free of the shock holding her in place. If she couldn’t assuage his fury, he was going to kill her parents, and likely slaughter the rest of the castle’s inhabitants as well.

“Petyr!” He seemed not to hear her, focused on her father’s face as he tried desperately to fight his way to freedom. She stepped forward, placing a hand on his tense shoulder. “Petyr, please stop!”

He looked at her with eyes at first unseeing, but something in her pleading expression must’ve registered. He let go of her father as he turned toward her, forgetting his own strength as the motion sent the man hurtling into the wall next to them. He clutched her to himself, breathing hard, and she kissed him, cradling his face in her hands. When they broke apart he pressed his forehead to hers, hands gripping her shoulders almost painfully.

Her father was slumped down against the wall, his hands clutching at his throat as he gasped for air. Her mother crawled over to him, ignoring the blood dripping into her eyes to attend to her husband. Sansa gave Petyr a reassuring smile then stepped away from him to kneel before her parents. She hugged them tightly to her and felt their arms weak around her. She pulled back from them, gentle but unyielding, slipping through even her father’s strong grip. She looked at them, somber, and saw dread begin to settle over their faces. “This is my choice. I hope someday you’ll understand that. I love you.”

With one last kiss to each of their cheeks, she turned from them and back to Petyr, waiting in the shadows of the room. His eyes were triumphant and alight with love as she took his hand, stepping into the night of his embrace.

***************

Thanks for reading. Any feedback would be much appreciated.


	2. I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Petyr Baelish knew when he awoke was unforgiving nothingness wrapped around him like a funeral shroud, an unbroken void he could neither penetrate nor separate himself from. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel where his body was supposed to be. He tried to cry out but heard not a sound; he didn’t know how long he’d been silently screaming. 
> 
> Title shamelessly stolen from Harlan Ellison. 
> 
>  

The first thing Petyr Baelish knew when he awoke was unforgiving nothingness wrapped around him like a funeral shroud, an unbroken void he could neither penetrate nor separate himself from. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel where his body was supposed to be. He tried to cry out but heard not a sound; he didn’t know how long he’d been silently screaming. Flying, falling, lying absolutely still, all were indistinguishable from one another in his dimensionless prison. This must be hell, he reasoned, but he didn't know what he'd done in his short life to deserve it. What crime had he committed to so offend the gods to punish him thusly? Was it simply yearning for more than his worth, striving for more than the rocks and sheepshit he'd been given, for daring to love above his station?

_ Cat. _ He felt the agony of dying, of watching her walk away from him as if he were less than the dirt beneath her feet. Unfair, this pain, as he no longer had ribs to crack open, lungs to burn, a heart to tear asunder, but he felt it nonetheless--every bite of cold steel, slivers of lightning searing his bones to ash with each shuddering breath only to reform anew to be destroyed again and again. Time passed by him at varying speeds, every second an age, years in an instant, none of it meaningful in any way. He had ample opportunity--an eternity for all intents and purposes--to think on his lost love. Pain fed anger until there was nothing left in him for her but rage. 

So cold, starved for aught more than the absence of all things, he floundered adrift in an ocean of unbeing until gradually he gained an awareness of occupying space previously lost to him, instinctively reaching for the weight of his own existence. Like specks of dust, he began to pull pieces of himself together, one by one. The first time--the first few times--he consumed another human being out of ravenous hunger for warmth and light, seeking it out in the darkness and latching onto it with every bit of strength he had in amorphous limbs, had been instinctual, uncontrolled. His consciousness broke through the endless black sea to gasp at the surface in blinks of red and white before the abyss took him again. He found another, then another, growing stronger and angrier with each successive failure, frantically clawing at the monolithic walls of his cage, chasing daylight in desperation until at last,  _ finally _ he had eyes to open for longer than a heartbeat, knees to plant into the soil, fingers to flex, a mouth to taste the air. He was overjoyed, on the verge of tears, until he looked down and saw the broken, bleeding form that had once been human in front of him, hands-- _ his-- _ covered in blood and offal wrenching the flesh apart. The only thing clothing him was the blood painting his skin, naked except for the evidence of his brutality. He could feel again,  _ be  _ again, but it had come at a cost he couldn’t bear. Devastated, he crumbled to nothingness once more. 

Eons later, he finally gathered the strength for another attempt at regaining physical form. The second try came much easier, and this time he didn’t flinch at the new mutilated, lifeless body beneath him. He pushed to his feet, searching for means to look upon the self he’d nearly forgotten. He followed the worn dirt path he’d woken beside, stumbling through woods dappled underneath the midday sun until he came upon a clearing dotted by several rustic stone buildings. The one closest appeared to be a barn. He lurched toward it, aiming for the trough set along one wall that he hoped contained water. Upon reaching it, he saw that it was mostly mud, but it would have to do. Leaning over it, braced on the splintery wood, he was startled to see that the face reflected in the filthy water was blurred, amorphous. 

Concentrating on what he remembered of himself, he managed to force it to a familiar shape but couldn’t make it stay, features and colors slipping through his grasp, dissolving and reforming until it finally held as something entirely different. The new face that stared back at him was decades older than he had been, worn by the time lost in the void. There was gray at his temples and sprinkled throughout the rough beard covering his face and neck, deep lines creasing his mouth, and a coldness in his eyes that reflected the emptiness within. He moaned low in his throat, his voice rusty from disuse. Wisps of pitch black swirled around his hands clutching the edge of the basin. He let go, stumbling backwards, watching his fingers dissolve into a cloud of ink before reforming at his unconscious command. He sent tendrils of smoke outward, seeking, and watched as they crawled along the ground leaving dead grass and scrub behind. Somehow he could feel the flicker of life snuff out in each stem and leaf like drops of mint on his tongue. 

He became aware of a commotion in the barn behind him, heavy thuds and scrapes interspersed with desperate whinnies. He slipped inside-- _ through the wall-- _ before he'd even realized it was happening, marveling at the dry straw and dirt beneath his feet and the sharp animal musk tickling his nose as he turned to look at the source of all the noise. There were two horses in one of the stalls, a mare and her foal, hurling themselves against the walls in panic. Their movements became even more frenzied when they spied him, splintering wood and rattling metal that would soon give way under the onslaught, heedless of the damage done to their own flesh. In the depthless night of pupils blown wide in terror he saw himself, a hollow shade impossibly dark and unnatural. That day he learned shadows were more than the absence of light, for they were the stuff of which he was made. 

*****************

“Just a moment, sir,” the desk clerk mumbled while shuffling away from Petyr, disappearing into the dusty stacks. Echoes fluttered around the high ceilings of the Citadel above him like trapped birds. The imitation maester’s robes he’d conjured were a tailor fit to his body but somehow hung off of him strangely, as if even the false fabric rebelled against his appropriation of the venerable order’s trappings. It hardly mattered, anyhow. The young man at the desk hadn’t been able to look him in the eye, focusing instead on the fake chain around his neck. That wasn’t unusual; he could make himself appear as ordinary as he liked, but there was something about him that even the least observant found unsettling. Dogs growled as he passed, cats hissed, livestock startled, even children too young to understand the difference between good and evil cried. The longer he was looked upon as something monstrous, the less human he felt. 

Succumbing to despair, he’d tried a variety of methods of ending his own suffering, but soon found he could not be killed--no blade cut fine enough to slice open his flesh, no peak stood high enough to dash his body to pieces, no weight was massive enough to crush his bones to powder, no fire burned hot enough to reduce him to ash--for shadow exists curled in the infinite places in-between and flames are born and die in darkness. Resigned to his apparent immortality, he decided to attempt unraveling the mystery of his continued existence. Wearing a stranger’s face, he stepped out into the world both more and less than he had been when he left it. He’d come to the Citadel in hopes of finding useful information in the centuries’ worth of writings it held. The disguise wasn’t entirely necessary; he could’ve easily slithered through the halls unnoticed, but even monsters crave company occasionally, and the conventions of polite society and hierarchical academia bade that the maester greeting him at least attempt to treat him as he would any other. It might have been a parody of normal human interaction but was still an improvement over his usual dealings with other people. Besides, though he may now have an overabundance of time at his disposal, he didn’t wish to use it wading through acres of irrelevant information, as fascinating as Dornish farming customs or Pykish rope braiding techniques might be. 

Presently, the man returned with several sheaves of parchment, handing them to Petyr while deliberately focusing on something just over his shoulder. “These are the references most relevant to your inquiry, sir. Please let me know if you need any further assistance,” the maester stuttered, quickly excusing himself after Petyr thanked him with a mirthless smile. 

The list he’d been given consisted largely of arcane texts full of now-forbidden practices sequestered in a neglected side room. As he made his way through the maze of bookshelves, he couldn’t resist running his hands over the spines of the bound texts, symbols of the society he no longer had a place in. For days on end he searched the dusty tomes; he had no need to sleep anymore unless he wished to. He uncovered rituals to call forth abominable creatures from the deep, twisted magic to breathe life into dead flesh and enslave the elements, but he could find nothing in human memory that explained what he was. 

***********

Disappointed, he left Oldtown wholly unsatisfied. Without a destination in mind, he took to exploring areas of Westeros he’d never seen before. The shadows let him fold vast distances like sheets of paper, slipping from one place to the other with only a thought. Food and drink he sometimes indulged in for the novelty of taste but it never sated the hunger churning endlessly in his belly. When he became starved, desperate for light and warmth, he took it, leaving a wake of blood and nightmares behind him. The last bits of his conscience bade him prey only on those that deserved it, sparing innocents, though sin and evil rendered the meal bitter and oily. He held onto the final scrap of what he had been like an article of clothing outgrown long ago kept out of sentiment alone. He could sense the wickedness in others, ill intent, past misdeeds. He cloaked himself in riches to lure the jackals in for easy meat, greed overcoming instinct to lead them to their own doom. 

Each place, from the smallest village to the most overflowing of cities, had its own flavor of culture and society, but throughout he observed the common threads of family, companionship, love, even simple discourse--all now forbidden to him. Far north of the Wall, he met frozen men who looked upon him with hatred. Their blue eyes were nearly as alien as his, but still warmer than the void of which he was made, however, for even ice has form and substance of its own. 

When he ran out of kingdoms to explore, he went across the Narrow Sea, all the realm of shadows his domain. The Free Cities held little of interest, the Slave Cities even less. In Braavos, land of his forefathers, he found men and women who would meet his gaze briefly but not hold it, bowing their heads in deference; the darkness that clung to them, dripped off the faces they wore, were a dilute form of his own, like recognizing like, but he cared not to be mistaken for someone else’s god, and did not tarry. Volantis he did not much enjoy either; the red priests of the great temple looked at him warily, preaching more loudly in his direction whenever he revealed himself. He could have told them their creed was right; the night was indeed full of terrors, himself the darkest, but he chose to remain silent. He found the House of the Undying in Qarth ill-named, and was unimpressed with the parlor tricks of its blue-lipped inhabitants.The smoking ruins of Old Valyria were beautiful in a broken way, but offered nothing of use. In Chroyane, he saw among the mists stone men crying tears of ash behind encrusted fingers. The forbidden realm of Asshai proved likewise underwhelming; the witches there played at binding shadows yet merely staged puppet shows at the edges of the abyss. Taking his leave of them with derision, he ventured onward to the corpse city in the Ash where dwelt all manner of nightmares and beasts, but none akin to him. They spat and growled and hissed, the few venturing to strike at him meeting a swift, painful end. He searched all the barren places only evil dared walk but found nothing, pushing further and further until only waste lay ahead of him. Discouraged, he meandered back west. 

Wandering through Mereen, the city of slaves clouded over by misery almost as thick and terrible as the Ash above Stygai, he heard the common tongue for the first time in ages. It made him think of home, of what little he had to leave behind, and the fury crescendoed in him once more. He traveled back to Westeros, making his way north gradually. Through gossip in pubs and the courts of minor lords, he heard that Cat had wed a Stark, but not the one he’d expected. Petyr was robbed of his vengeance upon his killer by a mad king, but the one who truly destroyed him yet lived, happy and healthy with her family. He was going to slit her husband open from navel to collarbone in front of her. It was a different Stark to the one who had slain him, but he reasoned if the man could take his brother’s spoils he could receive his retribution as well. He hadn’t yet decided what he was going to do with the child he’d heard Cat had spawned the year prior, perhaps crack the boy’s skull against Winterfell’s cold stone before he tore her to pieces with all the mercy and care she had granted him in his last breaths. 

When at last he reached the seat of the Stark clan, spring was beginning to melt the layers of ice and snow encasing the land. He walked through the castle disguised as a commoner, observing the bustle and clamor of its day to day activities with morbid interest. Strangely, he saw little of Cat, but much of her husband, ministering to the folk he ruled who seemed to bear him genuine love and fealty in return. Eddard Stark was a muted copy of his elder brother, less arrogant and boisterous; no matter, he would die just as easily. He wondered what the good people of Winterfell would do when they found their lord and lady broken and bled dry the following day. 

After night fell, a prelude to the doom he planned on delivering, he slipped back into the keep, moving past guards and through locked doors easily until he found the chambers he sought. He materialized in the dark, quiet room, taking in the still forms under the layers of furs on the large bed, candles long sputtered out on the tables abutting it, a cooling hearth of dying embers, tall carved wooden furniture hugging the walls with tapestries hung over cold stone. There was no moonlight to illuminate the features of it, but even the blackest night hid naught from his eyes. In one corner of the room, however, was a sight he wasn’t expecting; a bassinet with a child, only a few weeks--perhaps a month--old. He supposed the birth announcement hadn’t yet made to the South. Something called him to it, waylaying him on the path that would have led him to where Cat and her husband lay sleeping. 

A lock of delicate copper hung down across its forehead, its face nearly the only thing visible amid the pile of furs. He made not a sound, but the child opened eyes of brilliant blue-- _ Cat’s eyes-- _ regardless and smiled, the first of such he’d received since his death. Even before that it had only ever been Cat’s wan, pitying grimace or Lysa’s cloying simper--nothing this pure or good. The baby shouldn’t even be able to see him, and even then it should be screaming bloody murder like all the rest, but somehow it wasn’t. It--she--reached up for him with tiny, delicate hands. Almost unconsciously, he returned the gesture, lowering one of his own to let the child grasp his forefinger in a small, insistent fist. Shadow drew down his arm and slithered over the little form, enfolding her within itself, and she snuggled into it like a blanket guarding against the fading winter chill. He brought a shaking hand to brush against the soft skin of her cheek, and the contact was so hot it burned. 

She turned her face into the caress, and something cold cracked and shifted deep within his chest, a healing pain spreading outward, melting the black, dirty ice that had encased him from the inside out for so long. Warmth freely given reached the places within him stolen heat never could; he would not be parted from this child- _ -ever _ . He watched her eyelids grow heavy; she slipped off to an easy sleep with him standing guard over her until daylight lit the room and woke its other inhabitants. Cat’s husband rose first, padding over to his daughter while rubbing the sleep from eyes blind to Petyr’s presence. He learned her name when her father murmured it fondly, hands freeing her from the blankets she'd been swaddled in. 

_ Sansa.  _

Petyr withdrew when the man picked her up, but he could still feel the girl curled safely in his chest where his heart once beat.

*************

“The Seven Gods who made us all,   
are listening if we should call.   
So close your eyes, you shall not fall,   
they see you, little children…”

Cat hummed to her daughter softly, a sound Petyr found uncomfortable, oppressive even across the room from where they sat. He shifted restlessly next to the window he leaned against, studiously not watching her breastfeed Sansa. Perhaps he might have avoided the irritation by leaving at such times, but he disliked being away from her for that long, and only really had her to himself at night. He resented having to share the girl with the woman he once loved, and often her coarse husband as well, even if none but Sansa had an inkling he was there. 

After what always felt like an age, she was done feeding, and it was safe to approach once more. Cat was still murmuring to her, but he easily ignored all but the happy sounds Sansa made in reply. As he loomed above the pair, the child reached for him over her mother’s shoulder as she always did. He felt not a small bit of satisfaction that his touch soothed her far better than that of either of her parents, and she never cried when laid down if he was within her sight. If Cat or her husband found her uncommonly quiet and easy to put to bed at night, they never mentioned it where he could hear. When she woke in the darkest hours from something other than hunger, he held her, talked to her, wiped tears from her eyes, and reassured her that she was safe with him, that nothing would ever harm her. He still preyed on the iniquitous when necessary, but found much of his boundless hunger sated by being near her.

A commotion outside the door interrupted the quiet interlude. He heard a child’s voice cut through the thick wood, and a low rumble in answer before it was pushed open, admitting an unruly, auburn-headed toddler followed by the lumbering form of Eddard Stark. Petyr felt his mouth form in a sneer; the boy reminded him far too much of Edmure for his taste, and his rough, bearded Northern father was never a welcome sight. Sansa’s brother whined for their mother, waddling over to her and burying his hands in her skirts. She hushed him with a hand ruffling his hair, then bent down so he could look at his sister being held in her lap, admonishing him to be gentle when he went to touch her cheek. Petyr smirked; her older brothers--both the full one present now and the half no doubt being kept occupied elsewhere--learned not to tease or hurt her, as Petyr made sure they associated her tears with an unpleasant shiver down their spines. When Sansa began yawning and fighting to keep her eyes open, Cat finally set her down in the crib, pressing a kiss to her brow that her husband copied, and, trailed by the latter and her son, left the two of them alone.

Petyr went immediately to the bassinet, carefully scooping her up to hold to himself; Sansa didn’t stir other than to snuggle into his embrace, snoring softly. As she grew older, he knew with regret, he would have to cease taking human form around her, while she was awake at least--her parents would be alarmed if their daughter professed to having an adult male for an imaginary friend. Even so, he could still provide a reassuring touch, wrap her in warmth in the dead of winter, heal cut hands and bruised knees after a fall, guide her through peril and shield her from harm. And thus, he would become her shadow. 

*************

Petyr sniffed the air, detecting the unpleasant smells of man and steel, but held back the growl they provoked; the hunting party was quite a distance away, and moving in the opposite direction. The red and black that tainted the air around them suggested they had been successful and were likely returning to the castle with their bounty. He discerned the excitable auras of Sansa’s older brothers and the brined foster boy her family had taken as hostage mixed in among Stark and his men as well. He let the threat settle to the back of his consciousness for monitoring but refocused the bulk of his attention on the girl strolling beside him, hand curled into the fur behind his ears most pleasantly. Using the symbol of his enemy’s house was the ultimate irony, but Sansa was clearly drawn to it. He himself enjoyed the way the form let him capture her scent, savor her taste as he licked her face playfully, encouraged her to bury her fingers in his thick, soft pelt and nestle against him for warmth. 

“I want to go swimming,” Sansa announced abruptly, granting him a wide smile, clear blue eyes sparkling and eager.

Petyr snorted, and the force of it was strong enough to stir the decay of winter beneath their feet into the air in a cloud of fecund detritus, knocking back the new green striving through it. “Raring to lose a few toes, are we?” 

Aside from the hot springs in the godswood, the water around Winterfell would still be ice cold. Spring had thawed the frozen ground of the north only just enough to walk barefoot, as she was doing now, crushing the grass between her toes, but it seemed she was adamant. She tugged on his ear gently. “Stop being such a spoilsport,” she admonished, then set off suddenly, scampering down the path ahead of him. It was often a game between them for one to chase the other. He always let her win, of course; he was already hers, after all. He fondly shook his head before following at an easy lope. Mad, his sweet girl was, but he would indulge her nonetheless. She knew he wouldn’t let her feel the worst bite of it anyway. 

Sansa was bold, inquisitive, so perfect it frightened him sometimes. Her utter lack of fear for the monster he was, the beast others greeted with only terror, captivated him entirely. He gave her pieces of his past for her to put together, risking her rejection, wary of revealing each new layer lest it drive her away, but she accepted it--accepted him--with curiosity and not a whit of apprehension. Telling her the story of his death--the first and only time he had done so--had been harrowing, but she absorbed it with pensive consideration and gone to interrogate her mother for more information. Cat tried to evade her questions, but Sansa uncovered the truth regardless, and it made his chest warm with pride.

He soon caught up to her near the lake, snapping at her heels in jest before tackling her gently, cushioning their fall in a roll down the bank. She stripped off her dress to jump into the water in only her smallclothes. His attention was inevitably drawn to her porcelain skin, the swell of her budding breasts, the curve of her hip; he felt heat build, a stirring between his legs, but fought it down. He wanted her to know him as he really was, not in this bestial form, useful as it may be. When she first got her moonblood, he felt his need for her start to change, and did not resist when she cried out for him in the night; he lent her warmth and words to help her find her own pleasure. He wanted more, but he would wait until he revealed his true self. He longed to hold her with hands that were his own, feel her beautiful body against his, taste every inch of her with his own tongue, but he held back, still cautious, for if he revealed himself there would be no returning to the way it was before. 

Grinning, he followed, submerging himself underwater and circling behind to sneak up on her. He lightly tugged her down to dunk her head under, and she let out a shriek, splashing at him, then retaliating by pushing him below the surface as well. They fought back and forth playfully until they tired of the sport, then relaxed, enjoying the peace and beauty of their surroundings. Sansa floated on her back looking up at the cloudless azure sky, and Petyr gazed at her. 

*************

“I have to. It’s my duty,” Sansa sobbed, her voice cracking. Her betrayal was the sword splitting him in twain a once again, history repeating itself in terrible fashion. “Please…” 

He couldn’t listen to her protestations, for if he spent another second in her presence he might do something irrevocable. He buried himself deep in the darkness of his rebirth, fleeing the unbearable pain, but it only rendered him more hungry and cold than ever, shamed by his own cowardice. He could not see her wed that boy, be touched by him, bear his children, for if he was unable to die he would surely mete out death to all others who could. Even seconds were eons of agony no matter where he was, however, for he would carry his prison with him. 

************

He was entombed so deep he didn’t hear her call for him at first, and he did not get to them before they started to hurt her, a sin he would never forgive himself for. Guilt sliced through him, extinguishing the light and warmth she had given him to return it to unyielding darkness once more. He tore through the guards scattered throughout the clearing quickly and without remorse, the blood in his mouth lacking its usual rich flavour. Leaving the foul boy for her to destroy herself was the least he could do. 

After all but Sansa lay bleeding out into the dirt, he shifted into his true form, standing silently as she approached the fallen prince, still gasping and moaning where he lay in tatters, and watched Sansa drive the dagger she carried into the little bastard’s neck with an expression of pitiless, cold fury. When it was done, she wiped the blade clean and faced him. 

He stood before her as a man for the first time, almost trembling with fear but unable to tear his eyes away from her. Blood splattered over her dress, bruises on her arms dark where they'd tried to hold her down, blue eyes sparking defiance--she was breathtaking. Would she forgive him for betraying her, abandoning her to the clutches of that vile fiend, or would she turn the weapon on him as well, as it was nothing less than he deserved? Acceptance seemed impossible now, much less love, but her affection had replaced the blood that once pumped through his veins. Existing without it, without her, was impossible. It was just as well she broke the tense silence between them, as he was unable to do so. 

“Petyr,” she murmured, his name on her lips a treasure he had not earned. She approached him slowly, and the breath he didn’t need grew ragged in his lungs. When she was a step away she dropped the knife and raised her hand toward his face; he could not let himself believe it wouldn't be the blow to shatter him. He felt instead the warm skin of her palm against his cheek, and fought to keep his eyes open at the sensation. He couldn’t help but press back into it; if it were the last time he felt her touch, it would be worth it. 

“I thought you'd left me,” she stammered thickly. The tears in her eyes felt like needles driven into him, injecting poison acrid and bitter, and he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“Never, my love,” he promised--he wouldn't leave her side ever again--and cradled her face between his hands, to pull her closer, threading his fingers into the delicate red strands of her hair. He paused to give her the chance to stop, though if she did it might kill him, but she pressed her lips to his, her flavor lemons and fresh snow and honeysuckle, like nothing he had ever tasted before but somehow exactly as he knew it would be. He would’ve happily continued their mutual exploration indefinitely if the sounds of men and horses hadn’t regrettably cut short the moment. As they separated, he recognized her father’s soldiers approaching with the king’s guard; he shouldn’t need to shed more blood today, though he would burn the world to the ground if she wished. 

Reluctantly, he stepped back in the shadows to keep a watchful eye over Sansa as she was enveloped by the protective swarm, feeling prideful amusement at her effortlessly feigned distress, clever little thing she was easily bending the men of violence to her will with false tears and whimpered words. He also observed them retrieve the body of the prince with dark satisfaction; the boy would not make a pretty corpse, Sansa’s death blow hidden in the many wounds made by his teeth and claws.  When they returned to the castle, he likewise was forced to waited impatiently over her shoulder while her parents fussed over her and then again while maester did his work. He noticed the extra attention she received from the queen; he would kill her as well if Sansa wanted, so that she might be buried with her wretched spawn. 

At long last, after many assurances to her parents that she would be perfectly safe in her own room, tucked away in her own bed, they were finally left alone. When he was certain they would be undisturbed, he reappeared next to where she lay waiting. He wanted to join her beneath the furs, wishing to continue where they had left off in the woods, the taste of her lips overwhelming him even with the body of her vile fiance cooling at their feet, but he waited, unsure of his welcome. Sansa sat up, smiling at him, but as the moment stretched on her expression grew uncertain. 

“Petyr?” she questioned, fidgeting with the blankets. He then stepped forward, eager, lowering himself onto the bed next to her and pulling her willing body to himself hungrily, crossing them both sideways into the unseen to grant them much needed privacy. With reverence he began to remove the layers separating them, revealing the skin he’d wanted to touch properly for so long, and he carelessly dissolved the black cloaking himself at her insistent tug. 

When he saw her staring at him, however, he froze, stuttering an apology for the ugliness of his body, ashamed at the scars and signs of age compared to her flawless youth. He tried to reassure her that he could change it if she wished, promising to become something she might want even as the agony of the impending rejection cut like slivers of ice. Sansa silenced his pathetic rambling with a touch of her fingers to his lips before drawing them down to the twisted mass of tissue cutting through the center of his chest. The warmth of her skin on his ruined flesh was almost too good, and when she followed with her lips he needed to shut his eyes to hide the tears stinging there, though she could probably tell anyway. 

When he could control himself, Petyr returned the favor ten-fold, eagerly mapping every inch of her with fingers and tongue, figuring out what she liked from her moans and cries, reveling in her response to him. He lapped down proof of her arousal like the sweetest honey, her praises in his ears the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. He’d never gotten close to another to perform such acts--he doubted there was enough gold to entice even the most desperate whore to lay with him even if he’d wanted it--but he certainly had observed them and learned where to touch and taste, what would best make her gasp and plead, bringing her over the edge of sweet release time and time again until she begged for him. He settled himself between her legs, finally attending to his own arousal, kept at bay but heavy in his groin, needy for relief. The slow push of his cock into the heat of her womb was like returning to a home he’d never had. He licked the tears of pain from her torn maidenhead, waiting for her to adjust to him, then began moving, slow, unsure at first, before they figured out a rhythm together. As deep as he could be in her, with Sansa crying out his name, he found himself finally at peace. 

******************

The din of courtly discourse grated on Petyr’s ears, assorted smells--smoked meat and heavy wine mixing with less pleasant odors of unwashed bodies and musky furs--assaulted his keen nose, but he tuned it out, focusing instead on the warmth and sweet scent of his beloved, dutifully playing her part as a young lady should. He didn’t like having to share her with others, but the noisy feast did allow him to whisper the shameful secrets of their company in her ear as a mouse hidden by her hair and the high ruffled collar of her dress while she pretended to pay attention to the dull proceedings. It wasn’t mind-reading, exactly, but the sins of others were on display to him, the more they tried to hide it and the worse the deed, the clearer it became. He’d come to see it as a challenge to make her laugh out of turn at them, even if she inevitably chastised him for it later. Peering out from the curtain of her hair, he spied the cocky, flashy young lordling that had challenged Sansa’s eldest brother to spar--and blamed his subsequent loss on the squire attending him--laughing uproariously at his own jape.

“Lord  Piper,“ he murmured softly, brushing the shell of her ear with his furred shoulder. 

“What about him?” she whispered into her cup, taking a dainty sip of wine. He was kind enough to wait until she’d swallowed before he delivered the juicy bit of gossip. 

He smirked--as much as a mouse could, at least, before drawling, “Last month his mother found him in the stables with a squire, a kitchen boy, and a purloined vat of honey.”

She couldn’t suppress her snort of laughter and ended up having to cover it with a fit of coughing that drew the attention of half the long table. She blushed prettily, and used the cover of tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear to flick a finger at him that she managed to land right on his nose in retribution. The brief sting was certainly worth it, and he enjoyed making her jump when he pressed his smarting (and cold) snout against her neck in return. 

“Did you forget how to drink water, Sansa?” her bratty younger sister scoffed around a mouth full of beef and potatoes from further down the row. 

“Did you lose the ability to chew your food without sharing it with the rest of us, Arya?” his girl sassed back, and he chuckled proudly. Her sister pulled a face, to which Sansa answered with a haughty frown, winning the battle of wills when her sister was elbowed by little Rickon on her other side. 

He waited until the attention of the table shifted away from Sansa, conversations resuming as if the interruption hadn’t occurred, before following up with the best part, offering languidly, “You know, it wasn’t the most impressive number of cocks he’d ever been caught with inside him, but it was the most thorough whipping he’d ever received, as his now-former fiance and her mother were unfortunately just behind her.”

Sansa’s coughing fit mysteriously returned and persisted, prompting her to jump up from the table and flee from the hall. 

“Petyr!” she hissed, grabbing at him as soon as they were out of earshot alone in the hallway. He darted away beneath the collar of her dress, careful not to let his claws catch in her delicate skin. She contorted around, trying to catch him as he skittered across her back. When he felt her hand close around him, on the verge of conceding the game, he cheated, shifting form back to a man capable of wrapping himself around her from behind, kissing his way up her neck, which he did with alacrity. She tilted her head to give him better access with a moan but elbowed him in the stomach at the same time, which was likely deserved.  

“Sansa?” Cat’s voice echoing off the stones sent a familiar bolt of rage through him. Before she could round the corner, he slipped back into Sansa’s curled fingers and she quickly shoved him down her cleavage. When her mother came into view, he sneered at her within the confines of his current physiognomy from his hiding place. With each passing day the desire to take Sansa away to have all to himself grew, and though there was nothing Cat or her husband could do to stop him, it needed to be her choice.  Cat’s brow furrowed in concern. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine. Something got caught in my throat is all,” Sansa answered guilelessly. 

Her mother gave her a skeptical look, but Sansa added a sweet, innocent smile which seemed to placate her. “Come,” the older woman bade her, “your father wanted you to become acquainted with young Lord Piper.” 

Sansa shot a glare down at him as she fell obediently in line behind her to return to the hall. He would be less able to engage in any conversation with her from the new location, but it did afford the opportunity to enjoy the soft, perfect skin of her breasts. It was a compromise he was perfectly happy with. 

*************

“Sansa, stay away from him.” It was the wrong thing for Cat to say, threatening to take the girl in his arms from him. The murderous impulse that he’d had a decade and a half ago to tear her from limb to limb--subdued under her daughter’s calming influence until now--resurfaced. He’d destroy anyone who sought to part them; if that included her mother, it would be on her head alone. His former love eyed him in horror and fear, and it fed the rage overtaking him. 

He spoke to her for the first time since she saw him die, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “Hello, Cat.”   
  
Sansa tried to reassure her, making to move toward her mother standing stricken with terror in the doorway, but he could not let her go. Cat called for her husband, and the answering bray suggested the dullard would join them shortly. The object of his wrath stepped forward into the room. He sensed the self-doubt Sansa was still plagued by flare and it pained him; that she, perfect creature that she was, could ever think herself inferior or unwanted by him was absurd, impossible, and he vowed to disprove it with every moment they would have together. 

“You, only you,” he promised, trying to convey the impossible depth of his love for her, watching the conflict of emotions play out over her face, but they were interrupted once again by the appearance of Ned Stark in the doorway, gaping at them. Anticipating the forthcoming attack, he shifted so that Sansa was protected behind him, his fury mounting with each passing second. He would not be parted once again from the woman he loved, for he was no longer the weak, scared boy he had been before dying. 

He caught the fool easily by the neck as he charged toward them, hoisting him up as if he weighed nothing. Almost by itself, his hand starting clenching shut, closing off the man’s air; then it would begin to crush the soft, vulnerable tissues of this throat, eventually grinding the bone to powder... 

Vaguely, he became aware of Cat swatting at him with something that he easily batted aside, focusing instead on the fading struggles of his enemy, feet kicking uselessly at nothing, hands tearing at Petyr’s in a vain attempt to free himself. A touch to his arm broke the reverie, and he turned to see Sansa begging him to release her father. He dropped his hapless opponent in order to pull her back into his arms, her kiss, the press of her body against his a soothing balm. She couldn’t be parted from him, he would not allow it.  He felt a stab of fear when she pulled away, but granted the trust she silently asked for in letting her go to her parents huddled on the floor at their feet. He watched carefully as she embraced them one last time, and her words filled him with hope, a foreign sensation. 

“This is my choice. I hope someday you’ll understand that,” she murmured, kissing them each one last time, then turned back to Petyr with a smile, placing her hand in his. At long last, she was completely his and his alone, and his heart beat with a joy he’d never thought possible.  

************

They wandered wherever she wished, places both beautiful and terrible alike, her curiosity as deep as his hunger for her, and made love as often as they desired. Every wretched place Petyr had visited and despaired, he saw with new eyes with her at his side. His face still made mortals quake in fear, flee in mindless terror, but it mattered not, for he had Sansa, and neither of them would ever be alone again. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on continuing this, but it just kinda wrote itself. Thanks for reading!


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